


Bedside Manner

by nightfalltwen



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, St Mungo's Hospital
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-26
Updated: 2018-09-26
Packaged: 2019-06-28 03:25:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15699183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightfalltwen/pseuds/nightfalltwen
Summary: Pansy is going to start charging more for every time she has to deal with patching him up.





	Bedside Manner

**Author's Note:**

> Special thank you to **L** for looking it over.

* * *

"Healer Parkinson, you're assigned to beds four through six. Fawcett, beds two, three and seven."

Pansy wrote the numbers at the top of her clipboard as the ward matron spun around and marched toward bed number one, which was stacked with boxes of bandages and potions delivered from the storage room and apothecary on the main floor. Beside her, Fawcett was scuffing her shoes and looking back and forth between the beds she'd been assigned. The layout and numbering of the ward was strange and instead of following a horseshoe shape down one side of the ward and back up the other in order, the numbers went one to three on one side, four to six on the other side (four opposite one) and seven at the very end, just under the window. 

_It's just how we've always done it,_ Pansy had been told when she'd suggested making a change. Lord, how she hated those words.

"Want to swap?" Fawcett whispered, glancing over at the matron.

"Not particularly," Pansy said with a sniff, taking a few steps to put some distance between herself and the other healer. She heard Fawcett grumble and march off towards her assigned beds.

It would have been more friendly of her to agree to switch out. But she wasn't at St. Mungo's to make friends. She was there to work and keep to herself, getting by on a very low profile. If she'd swapped, Pansy could have easily handled the senior aurors and their spell damage. Something that Fawcett would require help from a more seasoned healer. But her skills would be noticed and that would lead to reporters, which would lead to news articles, which would lead to her name being dragged back into the spotlight. Pansy didn't want that. She didn't want to be noticed. 

Not anymore.

Grabbing the curtain that surrounded bed three, Pansy drew it aside and reached for the patient folder sitting in the wire cage that hung off the foot of the bed. Her eyebrows went up slightly at the thickness of it. Pressing her lips together tightly, she pulled in a deep breath through her nose. Please don't let it be Potter. Please not him.

She looked up.

Even worse.

"Blast," she muttered, meeting the stunned expression on Ron Weasley's face. "I should have swapped."

He sat up on the bed. Or rather he tried to sit up, pushing himself with one good arm, the other strapped to his chest with a sling. She could see the clench of his jaw as he held back what was probably a groan of pain. Shoulder dislocation was one of those things you couldn't just snap back together with an _episkey_ spell. With a sigh, Pansy stepped forward and set down the heavy patient chart on the bed, waving her wand to prop him up with additional pillows she'd conjured.

"Sit still," she said curtly. "You're only going to make it worse."

"I'm _fine_ , Parkinson," he said, wrapping a hand around his shoulder. "Go see to someone else."

"Oh yes, I'm sure you are." Pansy rolled her eyes. "Your arm is definitely supposed to be in that position naturally."

He pressed his lips together and glared at the water pitcher beside the bed. The old Pansy would have mocked him for all of this. What sort of Auror ends up in the hospital this much? She reached for the chart again and started idly flipping through it, noting the few entries from school and the remaining entries from his training and his active duty. Broken bones that had to be fixed and spell damage that had to be reversed, all of it was noted.

She let out a low whistle. At this point Pansy didn't know whether she ought to be impressed or horrified.

"Bloody Gryffindors..."

"Yeah yeah, I know."

Pansy looked up from the chart. "You were struck by lightning?"

"Only the once!" Ron protested with a sudden movement that caused his face to twist in pain.

Pansy wasn't even sure how the man in front of her managed to still be alive as she continued through the chart, flipping pages. Poison treated by bezoar. Dog bite from an animagus. She couldn't even tell what had happened during his fifth year because those parts were blacked out and reclassified as "department of mysteries damage: misc." Blank sheets made up his seventh year, obviously and the official St Mungo's memos started a few pages later with his first recorded training incidents. She glanced at him, noting the splinching on his bare arm and briefly wondered about who had healed it so poorly, to leave him with such terrible scars.

"Are you actively trying to get yourself killed?" she asked. "Or are you just really bad at your job?"

Ron scowled at her. "Don't they teach bedside manner in healer training?"

"I think you lost bedside manner privileges after your first year of active duty." Pansy waved her wand toward the cabinet, summoning various potions that lined up on the trolley beside the bed. She uncorked a glowing purple one and held it out. "Drink this."

He eyed it suspiciously. "What is it?"

"Poison. Because this is all a nefarious plan where I have schemed through six years of training, breaking my back and all my nails to get to a place of influence in the spell damage ward, knowing that one day Ronald Weasley would be in my care and I could finally be done with you." She paused. "Do I need to emphasize this with an evil laugh?"

He gave her a dark look.

Pansy snorted and rolled her eyes. "It's a numbing potion, obviously. It'll dull your senses so that you don't scream when I put your shoulder back in its socket. The emergency spells you received, hence why you're not in that much pain presently, will only go so far." She put a hand on her hip and swayed the flask back and forth until he took it. 

"And relax. I've got better things to do than bother with petty revenge."

She waited until he'd finished the potion, took back the flask and checked the little watch pinned the lime green healer robes. She hadn't even gotten to the count of ten before he slumped over, the heavy sedative in the numbing potion taking affect. Pansy let out a breath and raised her wand. She purposefully left out the part about the sedative. Setting a shoulder took a lot of concentration and she didn't need him conscious for it.

Ron woke later to a painful ache in his arm and shoulder, glowing spells hovering over him, all of which he could recognise as recuperating charms. Wasn't the first time he'd seen them and he figured certainly wouldn't be the last. On the table beside the bed sat a small bottle and a piece of paper. He reached for both and looked at the note as he worked the cork out of the bottle with his thumb.

_Weasley,_

_** Don't drink the potion! ** _

Ron lowered the small flask from his mouth.

_You still have exposed dermis and nerve endings from whatever splinching accident you were in. Dittany (what I assume was used to seal the wounds) is only good for field treatment and you ought to have sought a proper healer afterward. I imagine you're in considerable pain in cold weather and as a healer I am unable to ignore that. Use this potion topically. It'll work slowly to rebuild the layer of skin that was lost. I do not require your thanks._

_~P.P._

* * *

"Could you just go at least a _month_ between visits, Weasley?" Pansy carried a tray of bandages and potions toward the bed. "Your broken leg was only healed last week!"

Ron gripped either side of the bed, sucking in a breath as she cut away the charred bits of robe from his back. "There hadn't been any intel that the Dark Wizard we were chasing was keeping a Chinese Fireball..."

A hiss came from above as Ron's back was exposed. He twisted slightly to see the look of actual horror on her face at his wounds. She caught him looking and scowled at him. "And why were you chasing this particular wizard?"

Ron buried his face against the surface of the bed. "Blackmarket potions ingredients... namely dragon parts." He lifted his head. "But we didn't know it was his _own_ dragon!" 

"You idiot," she grumbled as she started to apply the burn salve and the bandages. "Chinese Fireballs think humans are delicious. It could have eaten you and then where would you be?"

He started to chuckle, but winced at the pain that spread across his back. "You sound concerned." Her hands seem to falter for a second and he fought the urge to look over his shoulder at her.

"Well... I'm not," she said after a pause that was just shy of uncomfortable. "You just seem to enjoy being highly inconvenient. I was researching new healing techniques from abroad and this... just disrupts my entire day."

When she finished, he was instructed to not move excessively until she returned and without turning his head he could hear her retreating footsteps. Folding his arms, Ron rested his chin against his wrists. All banter aside, he found himself glad that she'd been on shift at his arrival even if her department was usually spell damage and not creature induced injuries. Her skills were impressive, which was something he'd never imagined thinking about Pansy Parkinson, and he'd started to put his trust in her to take care of him every time he was brought to St Mungo's no matter the malady.

Resisting the urge to turn over, Ron closed his eyes and within moments he was asleep.

Pansy hugged the empty potions tray to her chest and leaned heavily against the wall. Once a few minutes had passed, she peered around the corner. Ron's eyes were closed and for a very brief moment there was a hitch in her breath until she saw the steady rise and fall of his torso. She gripped the tray tighter, scolding herself for being so concerned. He didn't need her to be concerned about him. He had friends and family to do that.

Drawing in a breath, she pushed away from the wall.

She didn't care about Ron Weasley. Not one bit.

* * *

Flicking her wand, Pansy conjured another paper fan to stir up the air around her. The summer had been sticky with heat and the rain that pounded against the window only served to make things worse. She pressed a dry cloth to the back of her neck and pulled at the robe, flapping it against her skin for some kind of relief. Only an hour had passed since her shift had started and it already felt like an overcooked steamed pudding.

"Healer Fawcett, did you inventory the supply cupboard this morning?" she asked, looking up from her papers.

"Once at eleven and again at half past three," Fawcett answered. "The matron had me strip down all the beds and send them to the elves to be laundered as well."

Pansy swallowed back a smile. One of the reasons she liked the night shift so much was that she didn't have to do the bedding. She gave the other healer a nod and made a mark on the parchment. A short burst of light lit up the window, followed by a distant rumble of thunder and a shiver ran up her spine as the rain started to drum more heavily against the panes of glass. Wild summer storms were not something she particularly enjoyed.

Outside in the hallway she could hear people talking, shouting rather, and with a frown Pansy stood and poked her head out into the corridor.

"Auror Sandhu," said the mediwitch handling reception. "You can't bring him to this ward. You're on the wrong floor. That's not spell damage. You have to go to the ground floor."

"The ground floor witch sent us up here!" The bedraggled auror with dripping robes gestured toward the lift. "All the beds are taken downstairs. We just flew all the way from Cornwall in this..."

Pansy's gaze skittered past the arguing pair to the figure slumped in the wheelchair. The next thing she knew she'd pushed past both of them and crouched in front of the chair, carefully lifting Ron's eyelid to check his pupils. She combed back his wet hair and tilted his head back and to the side, noting the spiderweb of burst capillaries along his neck. Without hesitating, she undid the clasps of his robes and followed the lines down over his shoulder and along his arm. 

"You've got to be joking," she said, looking up at the other man. " _Again?_ "

Auror Sandhu gave a brief recount of the mission and the storm that had swept in off the coast without warning and the dark wizard they were chasing.

Of course Ron had gone haring off into the fray like the typical Gryffindor that he was, Pansy thought bitterly. Of course. The man had absolutely no sense of self preservation. She recalled once hearing the gossip about him beating an enchanted chess match when he was eleven and she'd often wondered if he'd ever had the option of being placed in Slytherin with strategic skills like that. But it was clear. The man was obviously an idiotic Gryffindor.

"No sense," she muttered. "None whatsoever."

She levitated Ron out of the chair and into one of the unoccupied rooms. An orderly she couldn't quite remember the name of, Leonard...Henry... something plain, followed her into the room. Pansy instructed him to remove most of Ron's clothing, leaving enough to keep him decent. Meanwhile she summoned Ron's chart, wincing as the heavy folder landed in her arms. The bloody thing was so damn thick.

"You can leave," she said to whatever his name was and gave a dismissive wave to her hand. 

It was a good two hours later before she was satisfied with the number of healing orbs floating around the head of the cot, each one monitoring a specific part of him or the type of healing spell being used. Tapping one with her wand, it let out a steady thump and she listened for a long moment, counting the beats. There seemed to be no lasting damage to his heart, from what she could tell and she wondered if perhaps he'd taken some felix felicis before going off on his mission even though all the screening charms had come back negative for underlying potions that would interfere with the spells. Dragging a chair forward, Pansy settled in next to the bed, opening his chart across her lap. She glanced over at him, reaching out to move his damp hair off his forehead.

"I wouldn't be surprised if your mother sent a howler after she hears about this..." she said quietly, marking a few things down on his chart.

"I would."

* * *

He wasn't sure what time it was, or what day it was to be honest, when he opened his eyes. Only that there was sunlight streaming in through the window at the end of the room and that he ached everywhere. Every single muscle hurt. Even his _hair_ hurt. Probably every freckle on his body too.

Lifting his right hand, Ron looked at the scarring that went down his arm, ending in a black mark at his thumb. Just another bit of scarring to add to the others, he figured. He started to raise his left hand only to realise that it was being held. Cringing, he slowly turned his head, fully expecting to be face to face with a very angry Molly Weasley. Instead, forehead against the mattress and small hand wrapped tightly around his was Pansy's.

"Parkinson," he said, his dry throat cracking. "Oi... Parkinson." He shook her hand slightly. "Pansy, wake up."

She kept her eyes closed. "You really don't want me to do that," she said sleepily.

"Well don't you have other rounds to make?" he asked, shifting his hand only to find her squeeze it a little tighter.

Finally she opened her eyes and lifted her head. And smacked him with an empty clipboard. Hard. 

"Ow!" He rubbed his stomach. "Hey, aren't you supposed to 'do no harm'?"

She made to hit him again, but he caught the clipboard and tugged it out of her hand.

"That only applies to people who are not immeasurably stupid. Weasley, you purposefully flew into a thunderstorm, like an _idiot_ , got yourself struck by lightning a _second time_. The only saving grace was that you were on a broom and not touching the ground so it did less damage than it could have. But then your partner says you fell thirty feet _into the ATLANTIC_ and could have drowned! Do you know how many people survive that sort of thing? I asked you before... are you actively trying to get yourself killed??"

Ron blinked in surprise at her outburst. "No," he answered slowly. "Were you really that worried?"

"Of course I was," Pansy blurted out angrily, dragging her knuckles across her eyes and then fixing him with a glare. "One day you're going to come in here and be dead from whatever stupid decision you made while chasing a bad guy and I'm not going to be able to fix that!"

At some point she'd gotten to her feet and started to pace. Ron caught her hand when she was in reach and tugged until she was sitting on the edge of the bed. He peered at her, surprised at the red that rimmed her eyes and the purple circles beneath them that shone through whatever masking charm she'd tried to disguise them with. Reaching up, he smoothed down some of her hair that was sticking up from having slept in such an awkward position.

"I hate you," Pansy said with a sniff, but not letting go of his hand.

"Pretty sure that won't be the last time you say that to me," he replied. 

He sat up more in the bed, ignoring all the aches and pains as he moved and leaned closer. Pansy, in turn, started to lean back until he caught her by the back of her neck and held her lightly. With a smile he pressed a soft kiss to the very tip of her upturned nose.

"Doing that doesn't make me any less cross with you," she said, though the tone of her voice had softened.

"I'll work on it," he said, kissing her nose again before settling back down against the pillow. 

Pansy gave him a look before dropping against his chest and pressing her mouth to his. Ron's hand instinctively went to the back of her head, his fingers carding through her hair. She shifted and he felt a sharp pain shoot up through his ribs. A groan that was quite evidently not from pleasure croaked in the back of his throat and he tried to keep her from pulling back, mumbling that it was okay, that he was fine, but she broke the kiss and stood up suddenly.

"You... you need to heal." She pressed her fingertips to her lips, looking flustered. "And... and I'm off shift."

He watched her hurry to the door, propping himself up against his elbows. "I'll see you later, Healer Parkinson," he called out just before she shut the door behind her. "And we'll finish our conversation."

He had a feeling she wouldn't hate him forever. Not really.


End file.
